The Bitter Clamor Of Two Eager Tongues.

Thy Wit Is A Very Bitter Sweeting; It Is A Most Sharp Sauce.

Coal-black Is Better Than Another Hue In That It Scorns To Bear Another Hue; For All The Water In The Ocean Can Never Turn The Swan's Black Legs To White, Although She Lave Them Hourly In The Flood.

There's Such Divinity Doth Hedge A King That Treason Can But Peep To What It Would.

The Smallest Worm Will Turn Being Trodden On, And Doves Will Peck In Safeguard Of Their Brood.

How Sweet The Moonlight Sleeps Upon This Bank! Here Will We Sit, And Let The Sounds Of Music Creep In Our Ears; Soft Stillness And The Night Become The Touches Of Sweet Harmony. Sit, Jessica: Look, How The Floor Of Heaven Is Thick Inlaid With Patines Of Bright Gold; There's Not The Smallest Orb Which Thou Behold'st But In His Motion Like An Angel Sings, Still Quiring To The Young-eyed Cherubins. Such Harmony Is In Immortal Souls; But Whilst This Muddy Vesture Of Decay Doth Grossly Close It In, We Cannot Hear It.